


This God of Mine

by BetaBoks



Category: Original Work
Genre: A general depiction of an abusive relationship, Allusions to Suicide, Anything I write is just me exaggerating charas I like, M/M, honestly, however you want to interpret it, religious(?) themes, self deprecation/loathing, violence depicted isn't actually graphic I think that's just for safety, warnings for:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21685114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetaBoks/pseuds/BetaBoks
Summary: A god and what he means to someone.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	This God of Mine

My god is someone I can sit down with, someone who I’ve admired through the lenses of my glasses and the glare of orange lamps, and yet I can still approach him in his brilliant ethereal nature. We have held hands together, and we have spoken for so many hours on end.

My god is someone who is handsome. He is lithe and he always wears clothes that compliment his features, yet they always keep him looking humble and somewhat plain. He is wrapped in warm sunlight, although often times he tells me he belongs in the night. Though I’ve thought of taking him in my arms and kissing him more times than I can count, I know I do not truly love him, and I think he does not love me either.

In fact, I believe that to be an absolute truth, for my god is also someone rather cruel. 

My god is someone who hates me. He would rather see me as a splatter on the side of his car, or hung by his coat rack. He wants me dead about as much as I revere him, and I accept that with the grace and tact he would expect of me if I was someone he could respect. I owe him as much, I really do.

I wish I could be a suitable companion for my god, but I am not, and I never will be. My god will forever resent me for sins I have not committed, and no one will salvage me from this fate of mine.

My god is also a pragmatic person, however. He knows he will never get better company than someone as disgraceful as me, and so he invites me to sit next to him, to rest with him, to lay down and enjoy his warmth, albeit I never really will understand how he tolerates how lukewarm and sunken I am. My god is lonely, and I am only there to serve to the end of making it so he feels less so. 

He likes toying with me, this god of mine. He takes the strings to my heart and he pulls at them haphazardly, tangling them in his fingers, and he takes amusement in it. He smiles at me softly as he stresses them, those moments when we are chest-to-chest and I take note of how his hands in my hair feel like fever dreams as he snips at the very fabric of my being with the scissors that are the tips of his fingers. Every action of his is a silent threat, and I know that if I were to move without him guiding me I would simply cease to exist. 

This god of mine blinds me, though it’s not by taking off my glasses. He reaches under my glasses precisely to pluck out my eyes, and he keeps them in his right pocket. It is not enough for me to have my wrists bound to his whims, he has to cut off my hands, and he has to render my joints useless. It simply isn’t enough for me to kneel before him, he has to make sure I will never stand again. I wouldn’t mind, if it were for him.

He likes to sit on rooftops, and speak to me about things that had once happened long ago. Things I might’ve been there to witness, if only I’d paid a bit more attention to everything. The look he gives me is soft, and for some seconds, in those moments, I think maybe he is still kind. Maybe he is actually still kind, even out of those times, and I just never will be able to experience it.

He doesn’t sleep when I am here, and thus he hasn’t slept in years. Conversely I don’t laugh when he is here, and thus I haven’t laughed for as long as I can remember. Often we are silent, and often I am not lucid. Nights will pass and the stars will form halos over our heads as we lie down, and all I’ll have is my god’s murmurs in my ear, telling me that I am scum. Things are much better this way, I find. I don’t think there is ever a time when I’ll want him to be kind.

He’ll rock me back and forth sometimes, I am his useless stump after all, but no matter what he won’t let me rot. “I want to leave this place,” he’ll say to me, cooing softly, “but I wouldn’t be able to take you with me. I can’t just do that.” He’ll laugh, and he’ll caress my cheeks, and I’ll wonder what I ever did to deserve him. It hurts so much, but I’ll find myself nodding to his words, because my neck is no longer mine.

This god of mine does not mind life, he just fails to find meaning in it. He says that this life is not tailored to someone like him, that he could not possibly live in such a world when it is not made for him. Of course, I always think to myself, it definitely wasn’t made for him. A life like this one simply can’t contain a god like him, but it accommodates him well enough to stay, and so he does.

My god is a handsome man with soft hands and an ethereal appearance, and for the life of me I never remember when I speak my mind to him. I know sometimes it’s liberating, and sometimes dread will overcome my very being. Static will flow from my lips and he’ll only ever listen to it halfheartedly. He knows exactly what I mean, but every single time he’ll just stare, and he’ll stare until those thoughts fade and my mind turns to mush like a grape would between his fingers.

Despite everything, I feel serene, secure even. Secure in the idea that nothing is required of me, that I can let myself fall back and be a puppet, and things will work themselves out. The effort I put into anything will always be dictated for me, the outcome predetermined. I realize, devoid of any woeful sorrow that would be expected, that I’ve been robbed of my free will. My world has shrunk down to only my hands and my god, and I think that’s for the best. 

Sometimes I cry. Tears roll down my face with the sole intent to puddle at my feet, and maybe if I cried enough I’d drown. I’ve lost the ability to tell what I really cry for, if the tears ever mattered, but now they only serve to be cleaned. It’s just a reminder of how hollow I am, that not even the water in my body would like to stay with me, but that’s alright. I try not to cry often, because my god will not touch me if I do, and it’s the realization of this that makes me feel the most helpless. 

My god likes to tangle our legs together, whether it be under the cover of dark or whether it be with a dance. I don’t know what he gains with the proximity, not when it’s at the loss of some of his coordination. I want to open my mouth, and I want to tell him how foolish of him it is to do these things when he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t have to be vulnerable for me. I find that no matter how hard I try though, those words will never make their way out past my throat. In a way I know that that is not the truth, there is no vulnerability to speak of when I feel his soft skin on mine, but it’s that facade he’s put in place that keeps the thrill of it all. 

My god is someone who holds me close. I remember death came to sweep me away once, it offered its hand to me, inoffensive and very optional. “There is acceptance and love in me.” it had said, but I didn’t need either of those things, those were also very optional for me. I took its hand mindlessly despite that, but my god found me with my head beneath the water first. With the liquid heavy in my lungs, I realized I would not die for centuries, and the muddled words he spoke carried me gently for the evening. 

~~It’s the one thing I truly realize my god will not allow me to do, because if I really tried, I could get out of the rest of this apathy. I could detangle myself from his grip. If I really, _really_ tried, I could live my own life as the worn out doll I am, but never will I ever die, not as long as he lives.~~

My god is someone who speaks a lot, but never says much. His words are always laden with lies and extra bits to make them sugary, though none of it is crystalline and pure. I think he lost the ability to speak frankly to people over the course of the years that have gone by, as his lies have confounded and sharpened his memory. He is so committed to them, like every new falsehood he builds is a child to him. We’d have a large family, if that were the case, but all we’re left with is conversation full of holes and what-ifs that I can’t even begin to identify. 

I’ve listed so many things about my god, but I don’t think I could ever fully describe him. 

I guess, in a way, my god is everything.

I like my god, but I do not love him. He is my entire universe as I am his, and we’ve accepted that we can only sink. We can hold hands and we can sink as we admire the orange lamps we congregate under, or we look up at the rotating stars that split the sky in rings upon rings. We could even take a pause to look at the rooftop and the tub on the way down, we will be under even those trivial things as time goes on. 

It’s a comforting thought for him, but not for me. I know I’ll choke on the dirt under our feet and the reprieve I’ll wait for will never come when that happens, but I have come to terms with it. If it’s for my god, I’ll choke on the soil we’ll bury ourselves in, and I’ll let it fill my mouth and lungs as if it were a part of me. As he watches me I will stop struggling and come to like it. The only difference really will be that I will be a bit heavier, I think. 

I know he’ll never feel pity for me, but I don’t need him to. As much as he lives off me and I live off him I know I am ultimately the arbiter of my own suffering.

He’s sat down next to me now, as I think these things. I’m not sure when he arrived but I’ve looked up to him and I’ve given him my best smile. He’s taken off my glasses and our fingers have been threaded together. I’m very tempted right now to just push his hair out of his face, to have it stop almost obscuring his eyes, but I know he doesn’t appreciate pinning his hair back like I do mine. 

“Hello,” I’ve said to him.

“I found you,” He’s sing-songed back at me, and that he has. 

It’s the longest we’ve been apart, I think, in however long we’ve known each other, but he’s back now. I can feel his presence next to mine and every little concrete action of his as he settles next to me, preparing to sit down for a long time. As long as I want to, even. I know he would do that for me.

My god is someone who I have sat down with, someone who I’ve admired even without the aid of the lenses of my glasses and without the glare of orange lamps, and I can still approach him in his dull and dirtied nature. 

We are holding hands together, and we will speak for so many hours on end.

**Author's Note:**

> God I really liked writing this T~T  
> [@Deltaboks](https://twitter.com/Deltaboks)


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